Catalyst
by AndInTimeThisTooShallPass
Summary: Three years after The Reichenbach Fall, John is getting married, a seemingly banal event that will permanently alter Molly and Sherlock forever. Written because of the disturbing lack of Sherlolly fanfics. FLAWLESS EDITING BY Remmy the Roo
1. Every You Every Me

_**Ch 1: Every You, Every Me**_

_**You are cordially invited to the wedding of John Watson and Mary Morstan.**_

The missive had arrived two months ago. The thick, clearly expensive envelope had immediately drawn Molly's attention when she collected her post off the floor, having just finished her twelve hour night shift. Usually all she received were bills or bank statements. There was more to the invitation, but the gist of it was that John Watson was getting married, and he wanted her to be there.

It had come as a surprise to Molly; she had only seen him sporadically in recent years, the last time being four months ago, and the circumstances had not been happy. It had been the third anniversary of the "death" of Sherlock Holmes, and as had become John's tradition, he came down to St. Bartholomew's Hospital, laid flowers, visited inside for a little, and then went home. His eyes were clouded with the grief he suppressed every other day of the year.

They hadn't really talked about their personal lives when he had come down to the morgue. They shared their typical pleasantries but ended up talking about Sherlock. They remembered his quirks and even little snippets of the past. They never spoke about that day.

In John's head Sherlock had been murdered by Moriarty, regardless of their final phone conversation and the fact he had jumped off the building. He must have been forced. But Molly knew the detective was somewhere in Europe, probably still deducting and solving crimes. a picture of health.

The last time Molly had seen Sherlock was the night of his "suicide". They were at her flat, having just smuggled him out of the mortuary after his body had been verified as dead in the eyes of John and Mycroft. She had laid out his unconscious body on the slab, checking that potent chemical mixture Sherlock had concocted had temporarily stopped his heart, and then presented him to John and Mycroft. That had been the worst moment, watching the news sink in their eyes, the heartbreak evident in both. She nearly told them it was all a hoax, that Sherlock would be fine. But she knew she couldn't. Sherlock had asked her not to. So she played her part.

He was pacing around her small flat, his eyes cataloguing everything and nothing. He looked numb, and she knew it wasn't from the effects of his mixture. He seemed sad, but in an odd way. In her opinion, he appeared calmly sad; she couldn't describe it any other way. It was as if he relished the sadness. He probably did. It was infinitely better than the alternative. He hadn't gone into details, but she knew it would have been worse.

She offered to make him a coffee, which he refused with a quick shake of the head. She had hovered awkwardly by him, deciding to wait until he was ready to speak. It was a good ten minutes before he turned slowly to her, reluctantly tearing himself away from his thoughts, finally addressing her to ask if he could use her phone. His sudden voice in the silence had made her embarrassingly splutter a yes, sounding far more compliant than she wanted. But then again, it was Sherlock. He already knew she would do anything he would ask. She had proved it that day.

He only spent twenty minutes on the phone, no small feat considering he hadto convince Mycroft that he was still alive merely hours after his brother had confirmed his death. She tried not to be rude and eavesdrop but she got the gist anyway: Mycroft was to meet Sherlock and help him out of Britain. And he would because family is family.

Hanging up he had turned to her and said the last words she would hear from him.

"Thank you for your co-operation in all this, Molly. I am eternally grateful." He had given her a grim smile, effectively making her stomach swoop like it always did, the severity of the situation be damned.

"I'll be leaving as soon as soon as a car arrives for me, so no need to worry about hiding me –"

"You can stay if you want! I mean, I've a spare bed..."she said impulsively, blushing the second the words left her mouth, allowing them to trail off pathetically.

Of course he wouldn't stay.

He'd finally looked at her then, really looked at her. Not cataloguing any information but just staring, absorbing. Sadness had encroached on his features again.

"I wouldn't want to impose."

"You wouldn't be," she had whispered all too willingly. He looked at her again, almost confused. In retrospect she realised he had been touched. His eyes glazed for a moment, before focusing on her again, his tight smile and distinct demeanour back. His hand slowly reached for her arm, gently if a little stilted, his eyes never leaving hers. He gave her gentle squeeze.

"Goodbye, Molly". A car beeped in the background and his hand and eyes dropped. He strode out the door, never looking back.

She had been too awestruck to reply, and belatedly muttered goodbye to the now closed door, as her faced blushed again, as her heart let out a small ache.

That had been over three years ago. She received only three emails in that time from him, each from different email addresses, all pithy and to the point. He would update her on where he was and what he was doing, and then he would ask after John, Mrs Hudson, Greg, and herself. She always replied honestly, though she didn't know if he ever got her replies - he never responded.

It had been seven months since his last e-mail. Within that short period John had met and became engaged to Mary. Molly was glad for him, glad he was happy. The first year after Sherlock's "death" had been hard on him more than anyone. He had kept a stiff upper lip about it all, but everyone could see through his fake smiles. The limp she had only seen him with once, the first time she met him, had returned and he always seemed to be somewhere else in his mind. It was painful to see. It was only after the first anniversary did he finally seem to accept his only friend's death, much to Molly's chagrin and guilt. The fact he had finished the grieving process made it seem even crueler because Sherlock lived. He had gone through the anguish for nothing.

Now he was getting married tomorrow afternoon. Molly had bought a pale pink strapless dress for the occasion, the material flimsy enough to keep her cool in the hot august weather while still looking appropriate for a wedding. She was rather excited for it even though she was without a date. Luckily, Greg and his wife said they would keep her company, which was more than welcomed, even if it made her feel a little pathetic about it.

Her clothes were already ironed and set out for tomorrow as she sat up in bed reading Jackie Collin's latest book, the invitation acting as her bookmark. She was so absorbed in the book she initially hadn't heard the knock on her door. When it sounded again, louder, it finally intruded her concentration and immediately she was on edge. She glanced at her clock. 11:35 pm, it read. She frowned and got up quietly, just in case it was someone she didn't recognize. Tiptoeing to the door she peeked through the small glass hole at her late night visitor.

It was dark, but she recognised his grainy face. She had, after all fantasized, about this moment for nearly five years.

"Molly? I know you're there. Open the door."

It was Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Superman

She didn't move for at least ten awkward seconds. She just stood, hunched, eye to the glass, her mouth partially opened. Surprise didn't begin to cover it.

'Molly, open the door' he said again, irritation colouring his tone. That familiar tone. It jerks her from her stunned state and she hurries to unchain the door with her now shaking hands. She pulls it open and there he is, glorious as ever. The true Adonis. He hasn't changed at all. His hair is still the dark mass of curls it always was, his skin still pale. It was still a hypnotizing contrast. He even has the same coat, the very same one she included in some of her most closely guarded fantasies. She finally met his eyes.

'wh...why are …' she began, only for him to completely sidestep her and enter the flat.

'John's wedding of course, you didn't think I'd miss it did you?' he said as he strode into her living room, not even turning to her as he spoke. She quickly closed the door, following after him. He was sat on her sofa. He resisted the urge to stare at him. Again.

'You didn't let me know' she finally spoke, her voice now inexplicably hoarse. She blushed and looked at her feet, which only helped to highlight the fact she was wearing cow print pyjamas with her battered puce slippers. Sherlock seemed to notice this at the same time, casting an eye at her ensemble, and then at her herself. He frowned.

'Molly, those pyjamas are horrific.' She blushed again. Haven't blushed this much in the past three years as I have these past three minutes, she thought bitterly.

'Yes.. I, well I like them' she lied, the slightest bit aggravated by his presence. Back to his usual rude self. He rose an eyebrow at her, the ghost of a smirk on his lips. Her stomach betrayed her again, swooping at even the hint of _that_ smile. And he knew it.

Two coffees later, both sat on opposite ends of the sofa, Molly fidgeting, while Sherlock sat relaxed but still.

'...I read the announcement a couple months ago in the paper' he explained, his tone forced nonchalance. 'I'll stay here until it's over, after all it is just you staying here, there no evidence of another person entering, let alone staying, here for at least a few months' he stated, as he took a sip of his coffee.

Molly frowned. _I'll stay here until it's over. _Not even a question. Was she still such a pushover in his eyes. A thing to be manipulated? After what she'd done for him? She didn't warrant the courtesy of being asked?

Sherlock noticed the change in her demeanour.

'Have you done something to your hair, a new cut? It looks nice' he said, a bland smile in place.

_I'll stay here until it's over._

'Next time, call in advance' she said, her voice purposefully neutral, ignoring his attempt at flattery. Well, ignoring it for now. He stopped for a moment, then slowly put his cup back on the table. He looked at her directly, and she fought the urge to shrink back. His eyes roamed her face, searching for … something.

'I apologise' he said carefully. And in that moment something changed in the air around them. Molly had stood up for herself. In the smallest possible way but still. She wouldn't allow what she had done for him to be forgotten. She had the right to his respect. To his courtesy.

What else has changed about Molly Hooper, wondered Sherlock. He began to scrutinize the room more thoroughly. New television, expensive, as well as a new Ipod on her table, new but from an older generation, so she'd come into money, yet her clothes were still from a cheap brand, so not a lot, clearly indicating a raise at work or a promotion. Most likely promotion. The room was clean but not excessively so, there were still lines of dust on the block items, so she didn't have a lot of time to clean them. Definitely a promotion. She hadn't decorated from the last time he'd been here, another indication of a more time consuming job. A photo of her both her parents was on top of the television, the frame clearly expensive, a rare luxury for her, for something so trivial, so clearly it was important. He knew her father had died, she'd told him that day, and now it seemed her mother had too died, the photo showing clear evidence of being picked up, carried around, from the du-

'Stop that' she hissed at him, her cheeks flaming, yet her eyes studiously ignoring the photo. 'You're eyes always flit about when you're, you know, deducting, it's a bit rude' she lied to him. She actually loved it, watching his face realise all these things, the sudden knowledge glittering his eyes, the confidence. But the second he looked at the photo she knew he would mention it, or at least it would change how he acted around her, like an emotional time bomb, and she couldn't deal with that. She twiddled her fingers in her lap nervously, as silence stretched out over them.

'So Molly tell me what's new?'

Molly's head snapped up and she finally met his gaze. An indulgent smile and wary eyes gazed back at her. He already knew what was new, he was just giving her the courtesy of allowing her to tell him instead of just assuming. Yes, something had clearly changed between them.

Molly explained how she had been promoted to the assistant head of pathology (bingo), which meant a better pay, but also included the menial task of having to do both her and the actual head's autopsies too. Tiring but it paid well in a nutshell. Sherlock could see it in her face, the slightly dark skin under her eyes, the rest paler than normal, from being inside. He felt the oddest urge to touch the dark patches, too smooth them out and soothe them. Just to get an indication of how long they'd been there. He frowned outwardly at the direction his thoughts had taken.

Molly's speech faltered, and she blushed. He must be bored of hearing about my boring life, she thought.

'I'm sorry, i'm boring you, it's late anyway-' she stuttered to him, chagrined, as she made to stand up.

'No' he breathed at her, his hand instinctively reaching and pulling her back down. Her eyes widened and he immediately let go. 'You weren't boring me, besides we need to discuss our plans for tomorrow' he said smoothly, though his face still looked a little troubled. He ran a hand through his hair unconsciously, causing Molly to let out an audible sigh.

'Oh yes, I completely forgot' she smiled at him, which he didn't return.' Well I could drive you there, and then you sneak off and hid in the pews or something, or maybe you could go in disguise?' she suggested.

At this Sherlock let out a boom of a laugh. And didn't stop. He had quite a bass like laugh she'd noticed. It was beautiful. Or at least she thought it was until she realised he was probably laughing at her.

'Molly, I will be attending the wedding as myself' he said, laughter still in his condescending tone. Molly was confused.

'But you're dead, how can you-'. Oh. 'Sherlock, I don't know if that is necessarily the best way to tell John you're alive' she began, only to be cut off.

'I'm not telling him at the wedding' he explained.

Oh good, thought Molly, until Sherlock carried on.

'We're telling him now'.

Oh no.

Wait, 'We're'?


	3. Dog Days Are Over

'Come on Molly, hurry up' yelled Sherlock at Molly's bedroom door, giving no thought of the neighbours, or what they might think of all this noise at one am on a Saturday. Then again they were probably out, enjoying life.

Well there was no way she was going to John's in her pyjamas. She pulled on a pair of jeans, a floaty white top with a blue cardigan on top. Molly inexplicably wanted to look nice, but not like she was trying; if she looked nice John was less likely to punch her in the face for her part in all this.

To be honest she thought this was a stupid idea. Scratch that, it was a ridiculous idea. Of all the days to tell John the truth, Sherlock had picked the eve of his wedding. As if John didn't have enough going through his mind. And did Sherlock intend to tell everyone else, or just John? Had he even planned that far ahead? Sherlock probably had every consequence of every action rigorously planned out, but he always underestimated emotions and the unexpected actions they can cause.

Straightening up, Molly opened the door, met Sherlock's peeved gaze and smiled. He immediately left, gesturing for her to follow, which she did. Molly lived on the fifth floor, so she usually took the elevator. Of course Sherlock took the stairs. Three at a time. Molly was sure she was gonna develop a stitch. Running to keep up with him, she breathily asked him the question that had been going through her mind for the past twenty minutes.

'Why am I coming too?'

His step faltered just a little, too infinitesimally for Molly to observe. He didn't really need her there, but he wanted her there, someone to stop John killing him, to bring a little order to what he was sure would be an explosive meeting. A form of protection in a manner of speaking. He gave her no response. He just increased his pace.

By the time she had caught up to him, he had already hailed a cab, and was in it, waiting. God, he's divine thought Molly wistfully. She got in, and they immediately set off for Baker Street. John didn't live there anymore, though he still rented the place. No one needed to ask why. He stayed there every now and then, he must've been staying there tonight, after all the tradition was that you couldn't see your to be spouse the night before the wedding. Where else would he go? Sherlock knew.

They rode in silence, the radio playing. At first Molly paid no notice to it, she was more preoccupied with stopping her hands from shaking, and suppressing the nausea she felt. And then she heard the familiar song, and its familiar lyrics. '_Hike up your skirt a little more'. _Crash into me by the Dave Matthews Band. A song about sex playing in a cab with one person who was about as sexual as a packet of Quavers, and the woman who has been in love with him for five years. She laughed. Hard. And she couldn't stop. The cab driver was eyeing her warily in the mirror but she couldn't stop. Nervous insane laughter. Then just as she started to calm down, Sherlock joined in. Laughing for presumably different reasons but laughing together. As soon as they turned into Baker Street they stopped solemnly. Sherlock paid and they got out.

He stepped forward immediately, but Molly didn't move. She felt paralysed.

'I can't go in' she whispered to Sherlock's back as he opened the door. He turned to her, his face at first looking exasperated but changing when he saw her face. Sadness again. And echo of her own.

'Molly come on'

'N...no. I don't want to. I can't see his face'. Sherlock looked at her again.

'Please Molly' he pleaded simply. And she did.

Sherlock opened the door to 221B and walked in slowly, Molly trailing behind. Suddenly Sherlock turned to Molly, his face slightly panicked

'John's going to be angry' Sherlock said with a sigh.

'Better than being dead' she replied. And onwards they went, only to be met with the unappealing end of a handgun.

'What are you doing in my house' said the distinct voice of John Watson.

It was time.

Slowly, Sherlock leaned over and turned the light on.

The gun fell to the floor.

Molly gasped.

John stared at Sherlock, while Sherlock stared back.

Within two seconds John had reached out to Sherlock, embracing him tightly, starting to sob. Molly looked away, wishing she could leave, not wanting to intrude on this moment. At least it was going smoothly. John pulled back, though his hands still gripped Sherlock's arms. She couldn't see Sherlock's face but she could imagine the warm, happy smile that was sure to be on it. John was his best friend. The one person he cared more about than any other..

'How ..?' asked John, his eyes quickly flickering to Molly to Sherlock. 'You were dead, you were cold. YOU'RE HEART WASN'T BEATING' yelled John.

'No, I pretended to be dead' said Sherlock in his usual clipped tone.

Neither Molly or Sherlock saw John's fist come up before it was too late. Not that smoothly then.

Having finally calmed John down, after pulling him off Sherlock to prevent him doing serious damage, they were all sat in the living room, all pretending that the cups of tea Molly had made were good, and pretending that they were all calm. Interestingly, Molly had noted that Sherlock had made no move to defend himself during John's assault; maybe the guilt had consumed him more than he let on. Food for thought.

'So, how'd you do it then?' asked John, his voice cold. Molly flinched, and looked to Sherlock. His face was impenetrable.

'There was a truck on the ground, you couldn't see it from your where I made you stand. When I jumped I landed on it, and tumbled out. Bit of fake blood and voilà' said Sherlock dismissively. Molly wanted to slap him in that moment. It had been a bit more effort and planning than that.

'You didn't have a pulse' replied John.

'Ball under the arm, old magicians trick. Stops the blood flow and so the pulse'

'But in the morgue you were dead' said John, now turning to Molly, his eyes accusing, his stance that of a betrayed man. Molly gulped, and attempted to ignore the guilt consuming her.

'Sherlock had made this mixture to stop his heart for a small amount of time, didn't you Sherlock'- Sherlock just nodded-'so technically he was dead' she tried to jokingly counter. The stony look on both faces let her know she

'You knew all along then'. John's angry eyes burned.

Molly looked down. 'Yes. I am sorry but you would have died otherwise, they had guns on you, Greg and Mrs Hudson, and if Sherlock didn't jump you'd die, we had to' implored Molly desperately, rambling really, but she could see Sherlock in her peripheral vision nodding along with everything she said, and apparently so could John. Molly had started to cry at some point, and it clearly made John uncomfortable. He turned back to Sherlock.

'Moriarty?' John asked

'Yes' Sherlock replied.

'And there was no other-'

'Obviously not'

Molly sniffed in the air. Sherlock gave her a fleeting glance, before continuing in what appeared to be a staring contest between him and John.

'Where did you go?' John asked. curiosity saturating his voice.

'France, Belgium, Vienna for a time. I moved around a lot. I spent the last couple of months in Manchester before coming here.'

Both Molly and John's eyebrows rose in surprise. Sherlock gave a small smile that didn't reach his eyes.

'But why now, if the assassins are still at large'

'John it's been three years, they've been paid, I doubt they'll care anymore. Besides I haven't been idle these past three years, I have made acquaintances who can ensure that they won't fulfil their tasks should they want to.'

Molly shuddered. She really hoped they chose not to. But wait-

'So you're revealing yourself to the public?' let slip Molly, her eyes bright with need. Sherlock and John both looked at her, causing her to blush, but not look away. Sherlock smiled.

'Of course. Scotland yards solved cases ratio has decreased drastically.' he said confidently.

'But aren't you wanted for the kidnapping?' pressed Molly, refusing to hope.

'Actually' interrupted John 'they closed the case. They're was no evidence linking Sherlock to the crime apart from one girls scream, which could have been cause by anything; she was irrational, a kidnap victim after all. Besides when the boy woke up he confirmed it had indeed been Moriarty at the warehouse when they arrived. He handed them the sweets. Told them to eat to their hearts content.'

Molly's mouth moved into an 'O' shape though no noise left it.

'well at least that's sorted' Molly said weakly, the beginning of hope starting to overtake her. Sherlock was coming back. Properly.

Not that anything had really changed. She was still Molly, the awkward, and he was Sherlock, the unattainable. Sherlock interrupted her pessimistic thoughts.

'So, John, when are you gonna ask me to be your best man?'.


	4. Monster

Molly woke up at precisely twelve the next morning. She thanked god internally that she had had the foresight to think to put an alarm on her phone last night. The sun was streaming through her curtains, which immediately made her smile; she always found that she was happier when it was sunny. She stretched out with a groan, and got up, off to brush her teeth and take a quick hot shower. As she conditioned her hair, she was glad to realise she didn't feel too tired, despite not getting home until four am. She'd wanted to leave John and Sherlock alone, but not until she was sure John wouldn't shoot Sherlock. After officially asking Sherlock to replace Mike as his best man (poor Mike!), John had decided to call Mary, tradition be damned, to let her know about the changes to the wedding, and to subtly warn her to be prepared to have her thunder effectively stolen for a little while, though from what she'd heard about Mary, having still not officially met her, she knew she wouldn't care; she'd be happy to just see John free spirited again. Like she was.

So while John had explained the situation to his bride to be, Molly had decided to go home since she was fighting the urge to just close her eyes then and there. She'd turned to Sherlock, whose fingers had been interwoven and his eyes glazed over in deep thought. Tough.

'So I assume you're staying here now tonight?' Molly asked. Blinking twice, Sherlock turned to her.

'Yes, I'd prefer to be back in my own room' he turned to John 'You've left it as it was I hope'. John still on the phone, just nodded offhandedly. Molly smiled at both Sherlock's lack of consideration, and the fact he had doubted whether his possessions were still. Of course they were. John may never admit it, but Molly didn't think he'd ever truly, hand on heart, accepted that Sherlock's death.

'Okay that's good. I better get home though, it's late...'

'Technically its early' countered Sherlock. Molly rolled her eyes, only to catch his eye and blush. He gave a quick smile. She stood up, had a small stretch, and gave John a silent wave goodbye.

'See you tomorrow Sherlock'

'Good night Molly'

She stepped out the shower into her fluffy dressing gown, and began blow drying her hair. Yes she was very glad about how last night had gone, but then that was only one person. So many people who knew Sherlock would be at the wedding tomorrow. People would be pissed. Though she doubted Sherlock would care; John had been the main obstacle. She'd known that last night as she was leaving. She'd been at the curb, waiting for a passing cab to hail, when Sherlock had come out in a slightly rushed manner. She'd frowned and stepped forward to him, wondering what was wrong.

'what's the mat-'

'Thank you Molly' rushed out Sherlock, his face looking slightly reluctant.'For coming today. I very much appreciated it.'. His voice was stoic, very different from his words. Gratitude didn't come easily to Sherlock (he rarely had to implement it), in fact most of emotions didn't. Molly had felt she'd already been lucky in dealing with him today; he had been more considerate than usual, with only a few offensive remarks being directed at her. She beamed at him, her heart beating irrational fast.

'O..Oh, it's alright. I did say I'd help you and I'm a man of my word. Well woman, but you know the phrase is man so...' she tailed off, inwardly berating herself for yet another display of verbal diarrhoea.

'Ah well, good.' replied Sherlock, before stepping out and successfully hailing a taxi she had not seen coming. It stopped in front of them, and Sherlock opened the door for her. As usual, she felt reluctant to leave his presence but got in anyway. He closed, avoiding her eyes, and without looking back had just strode back into the flat. She'd watched him go, sighing. A strange sense of melancholia had overtaken her then, though she refused to fathom why.

Luckily when she'd woken this morning, it had gone. It wouldn't have been the best mood for a wedding. The wedding wasn't until two fortunately, and it was only a ten minute journey so she had plenty of time. She applied her make up, eye liner on the top lid, and some eye liner, she forwent blusher (with Holmes around she doubted she'd need it). Then she pulled on the dress, and her cardigan. Next came the flats, she had known for some time that she just didn't suit, nor could wear heels. With half an hour to spare, she went and had some breakfast, checking the news; nothing yet.

Finally it came time to leave, so she set off for the church, which by a stroke of luck was near to her home. She knew immediately as she arrived that Sherlock was there. The car park full, yet lacked people so clearly everyone was sitting inside already. She'd rushed forward and through the doors, only to be hit by the palpable tension in the air. She chose an easy access seat in the back, and scanned the room. Nearly every eye was on Sherlock, who was standing at the front with John, both apparently oblivious to the drama they'd caused. Sherlock seemed to be talking intently to John, while John seemed to be breathing slowly, and nodding. Odd. Both looked handsome, John's face barely gave away the late and emotional night he'd had. Sherlock's face had the slightest shadow on it, probably a bruise from when John had punched him assumed Molly. Scanning the crowd, Molly could see the array of emotions, ranging from rage to shock. Some looked amused, so clearly John had addressed Sherlock's return before she's arrived.

The wedding march sounded at this point, and in that moment all attention was diverted from Sherlock, and to the now entering Mary. And she looked beautiful. Her blonde hair was curled to perfection, and her pale skin was perfectly complimented by her cream lace dress, which was tight to her body until mid thigh, when it splayed out. All in all she looked stunning. Molly turned back to John, and grinned at the awed look on his face, and then went to turn back to the bride. It was mid turn that she realised Sherlock's eyes were on her. She smiled a little too brightly at him, her cheeks reddening. She could still fell his eyes on her as she watched Mary, and truth be told it made her feel a little light headed. Molly watched as Mary gave her husbands strange new friend a smile in welcome, and watched as Sherlock gave her the rare courtesy of receiving on back. He'd probably already deducted everything about her.

Molly zoned out of most of the ceremony, only really paying attention to the important bits, like the 'I do's'. She'd never seen John so carefree as he was in that moment, nor ever seen him so … blissful. Mary's face echoed his sentiments. Sherlock looked vaguely bored throughout, his eyes continually scanning random people. Finally the priest presented John and Mary as man and wife, and they shared their first kiss, which was slightly more risqué than Molly would have thought John capable.

Molly joined the legions in throwing confetti that a random elderly woman had given her at the couple. She saw no sign of Sherlock, but then again, confetti throwing didn't really come across as his thing. She had been keeping an eye out for Greg and Lydia when she overheard the sentence that would ruin her day.

'God, who does he think he is, Jesus 2.0?'

Molly turned around, instinctively aware that whoever it was, was discussing Sherlock. Molly was met with the faces of two people she didn't recognise; one was a tall woman, dark skinned, with a mass of curly black hair. The other was a pale male, with dark hair, and a sallow, almost rat faced look. They were both laughing at what had been the males retort. Molly felt a rare white hot rage in that moment, and without thinking stalked over to them. They turned to her, surprised at her unexpected close proximity, leaning back a little, but before they could question it, Molly was already in a rage.

'How dare you? You know nothing about what his been through, so why don't you mind your own fucking business'. Her face was red, her eyes sparkling. And with a final look of disgust Molly walked away, ignoring the fact she didn't know where she was going, giving no pause for a rebuttal.

She didn't notice Sherlock leaning on the church rails, only hidden from view by Mary's parents, his furrowed eyes following her as she walked away.


	5. Next To Me

The room was crowded with happy faces. So of course Molly was sitting alone at the bar with an unhappy one. She'd never been great in social situations, she always came across as stupid. That was part of the reason she'd picked pathology; dead people don't require tact. She sat on the stool demurely, both hands wrapped around her glass of red wine. She was currently sat in some social club, the wedding reception, watching all the happy couples dance, and slyly looking out for an AWOL Sherlock. Talk about a stereotypical singleton, she thought sadly. There was a DJ playing some Take That song that everyone just seemed to love, asides her. It had been about three hours since everyone had arrived, so everyone was pretty merry. Greg and his wife Lydia had sat with her for a while, making polite conversation (by which she meant they spoke non stop about Sherlock's dramatic reappearance, while Molly sat silently) but had then gone to dance twenty minutes ago. Everyone was smiling and laughing, and in some cases groping, with one another. It was times like this that her one sided crush on Sherlock made her slightly ashamed.

Why do we always like the one we can't have?

She knew he would never feel the way she did about him, yet still she clung onto some self destructive hope. In that moment she wished she could just let it go, find a nice stranger and dance and laugh and even grope. But she couldn't. Sherlock wasn't one to dance. He rarely laughed, and if he did it was usually about something mildly disturbing or insulting. And Sherlock could barely stand physical contact, let alone frivolous groping. She sighed despondently. Her eyes found John and Mary dancing; his gaze so resolutely on her, and so full of love. Molly wanted that. She had to give it one last try. No more half hearted attempt at asking him for coffee, she had to tell Sherlock how she felt.

'Fancy a dance?' asked an unfamiliar voice, breaking her from her reverie, causing Molly to flinch. She turned to the voice. It's owner was a thirty-ish male, with dirty blonde gelled hair, flat blue eyes, and tan skin. He was currently smiling a little too intensely. She gave a nervous laugh, and a fleeting smile.

'I don't dance' she said apologetically. His smile didn't falter.

'Everyone dances.' Molly arched an eyebrow.

'Well not me. But thank you anyway' and with that she made to leave only to have his hand come down on her arm and pull her back down. She frowned.

'Please get off me' Molly said, her voice ice cold. The man let go, hands raised jokingly. He was clearly drunk.

'Calm down love, just try to be friendly' the stranger said. Molly opened her mouth to tell him to piss off-

'I think the lady has made her interest in you evident. In that she has none. Go away'. Her knight in shining armour. Sherlock. Molly looked up at him, eyes wide, but his gaze was on the strange man. If looks could kill.

'Sorry mate, didn't know she had a boyfriend' the stranger assumed, hands raised again. Sherlock said nothing in response, which Molly tried not to over analyse. The man jumped off his stool a little haphazardly and stumbled off.

Molly looked back to Sherlock, and he looked back, his face neutral as ever. It still made Molly's heart race. Sherlock moved to occupy the now empty seat.

'Thank you'.

'You looked uncomfortable and I was bored' replied Sherlock, looking away as he signalled for a drink to the barman. He turned his gaze back to her.

'Not enjoying yourself' he stated. She didn't refute it. There was no need to.

'I'm just a bit tired'. Sometimes it is better to lie.

'No, you're sad because of all the couples'. Sometimes it is better to lie to someone who isn't a master deducer. She just shrugged, and made no move to explain. She took another sip of wine, and stared off at the dancers again. They stayed in silence for a minute. Sherlock was the first to break it.

'John wants me to give a speech.'

Was he trying to make conversation? Molly looked at him, to find him already looking at her, waiting for a response. She blushed, and began to twiddle her fingers again.

'I'm sure it'll be really good' she said with a smile.

'It would be if I knew what to write'. The frown in Sherlock's tone was evident.

'Just say the truth?' Molly replied with a shrug. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'Somehow Molly I don't think it would be appropriate to tell a huge crowd how boring I find Mary, and how I give the marriage five years maximum.'

'Appropriateness has never stopped you before' she said dryly, before realising what she had said.

'oh my god, I'm sorry, ignore me, the wine has gone straight to my head' but Sherlock was smiling, and just waved her apology off. God his smile was so beautiful.

'Why don't you just explain how you're happy you're best friend is happy, how he deserves it. Throw in an embarrassing story and then just ask everyone to raise their glass' she offered.

Sherlock looked at her, head tilted slightly, looking faintly impressed.

'Molly that's perfect! I could kiss you' he said as his drink arrived. Molly's heart lurched, and she could feel herself turning bright red. Oh how I wish. She looked away. Silence enveloped them again, the awful awkward kind.

'Did I tell you about the time John got labelled a bachelor?' inquired Sherlock to Molly. She shook her head. 'It was after I solved the Reichenbach case, the papers were dabbling with nicknames. I got boffin – rather unoriginal in my opinion- which John waved off, yet when informed him he had been labelled "bachelor" he got indignant and upset, a kept repeating the word as if it was a surprise'. Molly let out a laugh, to which Sherlock grinned.

'I think I remember reading the article'. Molly excluded the fact that she had cut it out for the picture of him in that deer stalker.

'Do you think that would be a good story to tell?' asked Sherlock, his face revealing nothing.

'I think it'd be great. You could revert it back to how he'll never be a bachelor again'- Sherlock opened his mouth to refute this- 'at least in his eyes' Molly finished. Sherlock shook his head in acknowledgement.

At that moment John came bounding over, a literal skip in step evident. He was beaming from ear to ear.

'Molly you look great' he said, voice full of cheer, his apparent anger from last night gone.

'Thank you, and congratulations. It was a beautiful ceremony and Mary looks so stunning'

Molly told him honestly.

'Yeah I know, I feel incredibly lucky.' John looked back at his bride. Molly smiled indulgently, all the while thinking daggers at John. Fucking happy loved up couples.

John continued.

'Anyway, Sherlock, time for your speech'. He grinned down at Sherlock, obviously enjoying his discomfort. Sherlock got up, and followed, just a tad dramatically, though not before throwing a wink back at Molly. She spluttered into her drink. Oh my God. She tried to catch his eye, but he was looking away now, striding to the stage.

Sherlock stepped onto the stage, and a hush fell over the crowd. Typical reaction. He opened his mouth to start. It was a shame no one got to hear it, because at that moment two uniformed police officers entered the building, standing out as much a two officers can at a reception. John rushed over to them, frowning as he did.

'What's the problem?' he asked, looking a little embarrassed, and just the barest hint of something else Molly couldn't place. Every ear in the place strained to hear. And a gasp broke out when they did.

'We're looking for Sherlock Holmes' the taller of the two replied. John immediately went on the defensive.

'Why?'

'Because we have a warrant for his arrest'.

Ah. The barest hint of forewarning.


	6. Heart Skips A Beat

Molly instinctively looked over to Sherlock, as did everyone else. His face was typically impassive. Straightening his lapels, he jumped off the stage (a little to jovially for someone about to be arrested in Molly's opinion) and made his way to the officers. Every in times of panic, he still made Molly's stomach flip.

'Can we take this outside officers?' asked Sherlock, not waiting for an answer, the complete and utter epitome of confidence. The officers followed him, as did John. Immediately everyone started, but the conversations were too dense for Molly to hear. She jumped up, and ran after them, ignoring the faces of those staring at her, though she gave them the benefit of a blush. She noticed Mrs Hudson in the corner, looking teary eyed. Molly hadn't seen her earlier. She was acutely glad she hadn't been there when she'd found out about Sherlock; crying women made her feel awkward.

The first thing she noticed was the sky; it was like a water colour painting, mixtures of pink, purple, and orange. It was gorgeous. And then she noticed how it gleamed on Sherlock, giving the impression of warmth. It made her sigh. It was then she noted the two incredibly pissed off officers attempting to talk to Sherlock, while he held up hand to them, his other holding the phone he was currently talking in to.

'What's going on? Why is Sherlock being arrested?' asked a flustered Molly to John, who had in turn been unsuccessfully trying to get the officers attention.

'For faking his death Molly' John replied, with a sigh.

'B..but you would have died otherwise. And Mrs Hudson. And Greg, oh get Greg, he might be able to help?' said Molly, panic in her tone. Sherlock looked over to her, though he still continued to talk on the phone. John nodded warily and went back inside. Molly turned back to Sherlock, just as he was hanging up.

'Sherloc-'

'Molly it'll be fine' he reassured her, before turning to the police. He held his hands out.

'Let's get this waste of time over with' warily said Sherlock, his contempt of the situation obvious.

'Sherlock Holmes, I am arresting you for attempted pseudocide'

Sherlock snorted at this.

'What? Sherlock, no-' cried Molly

'You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned'

'Sherlock!'

'Something which you later rely on in court.'

'Hey! What's going on here?' came the voice of Greg Lestrade.

'Anything you do say may be given in evidence'

'Stop them' Molly begged at Lestrade. He gave her an odd look for a moment before turning to the officers.

'Have you got a warrant?' he asked calmly. The first officer, a young man, maybe twenty three answered.

'Yes, it was authorised by the superintendent, Detective Inspector Lestrade.'

'Lestrade, they are perfectly within their rights to arrest me' calmly stated Sherlock.

'But he did it to save peoples lives' implored Molly to the police.

'This is ridiculous' muttered John, his voice full of scorn, his steely gaze on the officers.

'Look, surely we can-' Lestrade attempt to reason with the officers, only for everyone to be cut off by the sound of a loud car engine. Everyone but Sherlock looked up. It was clearly an expensive car, probably cost more than Molly made in a year. Or ten years. It stopped dramatically. And out stepped out the familiar face of Mycroft Holmes.

At that moment a group sigh of relief sounded. Molly felt her tense shoulders relax. She didn't know much about Mycroft Holmes, but even she knew that he would make this go away.

Mycroft looked over at Sherlock, condescension obvious. Sherlock just replied with the quick rise and fall of his eyebrows. Sighing Mycroft turned to the officers. Mycroft walked with an authority, with a sense of power, that even the oblivious officers could feel. Smiling, he greeted the officers, pulling out some kind of I.D that Molly couldn't see. Clearly the officers could, as they immediately straightened up, in almost military stances. Mycroft continued to smile as he leaned forward and spoke in a low whisper that Molly couldn't hear, though her ears strained to. At first the officers looked confused, then shocked, then embarrassed. And finally they surrendered.

The officer who had cuffed Sherlock was the one who let him go. Sherlock hands immediately went to rub his wrists and for one mad moment Molly imagined doing it herself. She blushed as her thoughts became a little low brow, only to look up and see Sherlock watching her curiously. She smiled nervously in response, trying to suppress the fact that he probably knew what she was thinking. He had an impossible knack for doing that.

Mycroft continued to talk to the officers until they eventually left, apologising profusely for the mix up. Whatever Mycroft had said had worked. John had already walked over to Sherlock, to both check he was okay and to berate him for taking his thunder at his own wedding reception, and he had the consideration to actually look apologetic; whether he actually felt so was a different matter. That one had made Molly laugh, though she lagged back with Lestrade. Mycroft eventually sauntered, actually sauntered, over to Sherlock, his face unamused.

'Brother dear, I was in a very important meeting' began Mycroft.

'I'm glad I called then, I saved another country from destruction at your hands' said Sherlock flippantly. Mycroft frowned

'Sherlock...'

'Yes, well we're done here, thank you for your assistance Mycroft' and with that Sherlock went back inside as if nothing had even happened. With a sigh, Greg and John followed him, but Molly didn't move. She watched Mycroft's face, as he watched Sherlock walk away. There was an underlying sadness on his face, clearly deep rooted. Molly didn't even want to ponder the reason for that. He noticed her staring, and smiled at her.

'Dr Hooper' he said with the incline of his head.

'Thank you Mr Holmes' she said shyly. He just smiled again, and left, back to his car and back to starting a war she presumed.

By now it was evening, and Molly had to be up at seven the next morning. Soon it would be dark, and she'd prefer to walk home during sunset; it felt safer. She slowly walked back inside, and went to the cloak room, collecting her bag. She quickly poked her head through the door, and caught John's eye. She made some crude gestures to indicate she was leaving, but when he made to get up she indicated he should stay. With one last smile to the bride and groom she left.

For some reason she was feeling a little... sad. She couldn't think of another word for it. It wasn't just the happy couples. She knew that if Sherlock had been arrested she could have been for being an accomplice; she would have lost her job, her license and would have gained a criminal record. Though she didn't think Sherlock would have informed the police of her involvement, she knew that as she had conducted the autopsy, they would've known she was involved. She hadn't really considered the consequences when she agreed to do it. She'd just agreed on blind faith, because it was for the beautiful genius Sherlock. They both could have been arrested. The thought was a little debilitating.

'Molly!'

Molly whirled around, to come face to face with her tormentor/love of her life. Sherlock was jogging slightly, looking at her.

'Molly, you're leaving' he stated. She nodded.

'I've got work in the morning' she explained, avoiding his eyes. Suddenly his hand was on hers. She let out a gasp which he ignored, as she looked up at him, eyes wide, mouth partially open.

'It's late Molly, you could be drunk, which would increase your liklihood of being attacked, which, knowing your mental temperament, would most likely resolve in you having a mental breakdown, leaving me with restricted access to the morgue. I can't allow that to happen.' His face revealed nothing. And with that he checked her pulse.

Oh my God.

She was shaking, and she prayed to God he wouldn't notice, though she knew that was hopeless. His fingers were slightly calloused, but still felt soft on her skin. His two fingers splayed out over her wrist for just a moment, before suddenly reconnecting over her pulse. Her heart felt like it would beat out of her chest, her head experiencing the rare sensation of feeling weightless. She avoided his eyes. They stayed like this for a minute, his hand enclosed around her wrist, his fingers resting on her pulse. Fortunately, and sadly, he pulled away, and smiled at her.

'Your heart rates normal. You're not drunk and so less prone to danger.' he said with an almost sad smile. She was too dazzled to respond.

'Well. Goodnight Molly Hooper' he said, his voice a little hoarse. His eyes lingered on her face for just a moment too long. And he turned around and left.

She didn't move for a solid minute.


	7. Video Games

He would have known if she had been drunk just by looking at her. He hadn't needed to touch her so why had he? That was the thought that had been running through Molly's mind all morning as she performed numerous autopsies. She tried to concentrate, but the thoughts seemed to consume her. She wondered idly if she was just assuming what she wanted to know; whether the look he'd given her was as long as she remembered, or whether he'd literally been trying to make conversation at the reception, or just spoke as he thought- no ulterior motive. It wouldn't be the first time. Sometimes she thought he just spoke to people, just so he could speak.

He'd been all over the news that morning of course. Pictures of him being arrested accompanied, obviously taken with a camera phone. He was back to being a genius in their eyes. A deceptive genius. Kitty Reilly's article was forgotten, after all, if he could fake his own death, he clearly had to be smart. Some scandalous reports had even suggested that Sherlock had returned to stop John getting married, which made her laugh rather uncomfortably. She had no doubt that the press were currently picketed outside Baker Street, waiting to pounce. Poor Sherlock she thought lamely, they really were vultures.

John must've left for his honeymoon by now; he may have been happy to see Sherlock but she doubted that he would forsake a two week break in the Caribbean with the woman he loved just to catch up. Plus he probably wanted to avoid the circus. He'd had enough of the press after Sherlock had 'died'; they followed him continually for at least three months, digging up or fabricating stories, dissecting his blog entries to twist to fit their version of events. They'd even accused John of helping Sherlock with the kidnapping at one point. It was horrible. He didn't say anything about it, but for those three months you could see the continual wariness in his eyes, afraid to speak for fear it would be on page four of The Sun.

She gave another internal thank you that John had met Mary.

She pulled out the syringe she'd been using to get a blood sample from the John Doe on the table. She suspected a drug overdose, it was just a matter of proving it. Finally it was time for lunch, so she pulled out her home cooked pasta, and made herself a cup of tea, settling down for a quiet hour. Which was, of course, when Sherlock Holmes came waltzing in, in a blaze of glory and chaos. He looked at her.

'Riding crop?'. He asked simply. She blinked, and quickly swallowed the pasta in her mouth.

'Erm, it's behind the door'

'Thank you Molly' his voice curiously stretching out her name.

He spent ten minutes repeatedly hitting the corpse of David Heritage. She doubted that when he'd consented to donate his body to medical science, he'd had this in mind. She tried not to watch him, unsuccessfully. There was something intriguing about watching Sherlock expel his repressed rage. He may think he was doing it for scientific reasons, but the look on his face was not scientific. It was real human emotion. It thrilled her.

'It's been a while since I've done that. I want to see how easily it would be to cause a blood clot from blunt force trauma' he said as he hung the riding crop back behind the door, panting only the slightest bit.

'Oh' was all Molly could think to say. Why could she never think of anything intelligent to say around him? He sat down opposite her. She was suddenly conscience of the fact she was eating.

'Can I have a coffee Molly?' he asked oddly tentative.

'Erm of course. Just a moment' she stuttered to him, before quickly dashing off to the staff room. When she came back five minutes later, he had pulled out the John Doe, and was examining him.

'Heroin overdose' was all he said, not looking up. She placed the coffee next to him.

'How do you know?' she asked, not to question him, but because she genuinely wanted to understand his thought process. His answer wasn't it's usual scientific self.

'His not the first person I've seen dead from a drug overdose.'

Molly frowned.

'I..i..Oh. Whe-'

'I was on a case in France, tracking down some aristocrat's drug addicted son. Boring, but I needed money and needs must.' His eyes were glazed off, clearly remembering. Molly didn't move nor speak. She didn't want to jinx it. He continued

'I had been sleeping at a train station at the time; avoiding detection. I didn't even recognise him, despite seeing his picture,. He had a beard, much longer hair and a much more sallower, paler face. He would have been utterly unrecognisable to people like you and John. He had been staying there too, though we hadn't communicated. You don't by rule. By the time I realised it was him and got back there, he had already choked on his own vomit.'.

'Poor man' she whispered unwittingly. Sherlock said nothing.

'Did you sleep in train stations a lot?' she asked quietly, try to sound nonchalant, though something in her desperately needing to know.

'It was necessary frequently. I have a distinct face. One sighting of me and the conspiratorial nuts would have started a man hunt.' She winced a little. She'd chosen to imagine him living the bohemian life, staying in hotels, travelling, living an exotic life. It pained her to know that wasn't the case.

'But you still took on cases?'

'Every now and then, delicate ones for associates of Mycroft's. It staved the boredom'. Sherlock's eyes were still glazed off remembering, and Molly suspected they weren't happy memories.

'I'm sorry' she whispered, and his head snapped up to meet her gaze.

'Been hounded by the press yet?' she said with a smile, trying to lighten the mood, trying to distract him. It worked, he blinked.

'Please. Easily evaded.' He said with a smile, which she returned. They fell silent again.

'D..did you ever get to do your speech in the end?' she asked, wanting to keep him talking.

'Fortunately not, John thought it would be best if I just remained quiet for the rest of the night. He didn't want me to keep taking the attention.'

'I thought you would have gone home. Not that I mean you should have, I mean because you don't really like social situations. Not that you're anti social, i mean-' rambled Molly, blushing luminous red.

'Molly stop talking' said Sherlock smiling. 'John wanted me to stay. I think he was concerned I would leave again. Irrational fear.'.

That made sense to Molly. If she thought Sherlock had died for a time, she wouldn't let him out of her sight. Even thinking of the possibility of him being dead made her heart ache. She thought back to last night at the reception; she'd been so determined to tell him. Maybe this would be the perfect time? At least they'd be alone, so her humiliation wouldn't have witnesses. Molly's heart reeled at the idea, but her head told her to. She had to take a chance. Seeing John get married had really reawakened her need to get married, have children. She wanted those things more than ever. Now or never.

'S..Sherlock-'

'I don't think he wanted to go on his honeymoon to be honest'

'Sherlock...'

'Yes Molly?' He asked, turning his gaze to look at her. She didn't hesitate.

She leant forward and kissed him.

He didn't move.

She wrapped her hands in his hair, and continued to kiss his unmoving lips harder.

'Please. Please. Please' she begged breathily, pulling away slightly, looking into his shocked round eyes. Just once. She knew she sounded desperate but she didn't care. She kissed him again, ready to cry. And then, with the smallest movement, he kissed her back. Reluctantly. Hesitantly. But he still kissed her back. Slowly his hands made their way to the top of her arms, and just loitered there, making no move to pull her closer nor restrain.

His lips were soft, and warm. They didn't move expertly, but by God they did something for her. She suddenly felt hot, boiling hot, yet she was shaking. She could feel the individual waves of his hair wrapping around her fingers. For the first time in a while she felt her lower stomach coil. Just a little. She wanted to jump him. More than anything. She felt his finger tips through her clothes, moving down her arms painfully slowly, before wrapping around her wrists, Sherlock's thumbs shakily rubbing the skin there.

And then he pulled away.

His lips were red, and swollen a little. He had the look of a rabbit caught in headlights. His eyes, dilated, wide and bright, seemed to penetrate her soul. She waited for him to do something, anything.

'Molly no' he said simply, sounding partially breathless.

She immediately felt sick. She jerked away from him, shaking heavily now.

'I...i.. i'm so sorry, I shouldn't have- I gotta go' she stammered and then ran out the room, leaving a bewildered, and conflicted Sherlock alone.


	8. Somebody That I Used To Know

So i was only gonna do one update today, but you're all so nice that i decided to write the next part :D Enjoy.

* * *

><p>She'd called in sick. Because she was sick. Well not technically ill, but she definitely had the symptoms; she wanted to be sick, and felt light headed. The burn of humiliation wouldn't let up. She tried to think positively, after all she had kissed Sherlock Holmes. No one could take that away from her. And it'd been nice, better than nice, it had been bliss. And sure, she would never do it again, but she'd always have that one time. He'd rejected her. She knew that. Maybe now she could move on, finally meet someone who could give her what she wanted. That had to be a positive thing. Sure it hurt now, but like her mum had said to her after her first boyfriend Curtis had broken up with her when she was thirteen, time heals all wounds.<p>

It was going to be so embarrassing the next time she saw him. She suspected that he would probably avoid the morgue for a while, run away from the risk of running into her in her emotional state, but soon the allure of a case or a body would be too much and he'd come in. and it would be awkward. And painful. And sad. She groaned, and pulled the duvet over her head. It just kept running through her head. Why hadn't her memory already repressed this by now? She just felt ill every time she thought about it. Which was all the time. In a weird way she felt beaten, a bit weak. The shame was potent. It made her eyes sting.

It had been bad enough when she'd found out Jim had just used her, she'd felt stupid then, embarrassed too. But this was another level. Because her heart had really been in it. This had to be the end of it. No more hope, no more of this ridiculous longing.

She didn't want to die alone.

There was a knock on the door. She frowned. It was Sherlock, she recognised the knock. Oh no. She debated between not moving, acting as though she was asleep, or between just blatantly ignoring him.

'Molly, open the door, I know you're awake'. Molly felt herself turn beetroot. Her hands started to shake. With a sigh she got up and answered the door, avoiding his eyes. She messed around with the knot on her dressing gown.

'Are you gonna invite me in?' asked Sherlock exasperated, tapping his foot at an alarming pace.

'Oh. Of course, come in'

She silently gestured him in, still not looking directly at him, just watching his back as he went into her living room. He sat down, his foot still tapping consistently. She eyed it warily. She sat on the chair opposite, still playing with her gown. She could feel his eyes on her, though she refused to meet them.

'I'm sorry I made you cry' he said solemnly. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, of course he could tell. She wiggled a little, fighting the urge to lock herself in the bathroom until judgement day. He continued

'I hope this changes nothing between us, though I can tell it has already'.

Molly sighed, running a hand through her hair. She noticed Sherlock wiggle himself, just a little. She finally met his eyes, and was surprised to see dark circles underneath.

'Sherlock. I..i... humiliated myself yesterday, as well as made you uncomfortable. Of course things have changed. I'm hurt, and it's not your fault, you've always made yourself perfectly clear to me but I ignored it, twisted it. But either way I'm hurt.' Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, though he had no idea what to say. Her sentence was wrong, but he couldn't understand in which respect, which was new to him. She closed her eyes, and just said 'don't'. She looked aged. He shut up. She carried on.

'I..i still want you to come to the morgue, but I don't want to make your coffee anymore, or be little lovelorn Molly. It's not your fault, but I just can't be friends with you. It's not fair. I need to move on. I want to get married like John. But instead of doing anything about it, I allowed myself to like you '- both knew she meant love. 'It's what I need to do.' she finished, finality in her tone. Sherlock couldn't help admiring this new Molly a little.

But that didn't mean Sherlock liked what she was saying. At all. Okay the kiss had been weird. Not unpleasant, just new. But he didn't feel how Molly felt. Nor did he wish too. People became slaves to their feelings too quickly, too whole heartedly. And he understood why Molly wanted him to keep a distance. Normally he would encourage it, an intelligent decision that so few people would implement. But this was different. He didn't want her to make the intelligent decision. He had so few friends that he didn't want to lose the ones he had. He didn't hate her company. Plus, with prolonged distance, her feelings would change for him. What if they changed to hate? Resentment? He suppressed a shudder at the thought. That wouldn't be pleasant. It could restrict his access to the morgue. He needed to keep her on side.

The kiss had been okay. He wasn't an expert but she seemed to like it, though she'd like anything he did. And he liked that she liked it. And she certainly had gone up in his estimation the past week. She was a lot like John; loyal and kind. But more than John she felt lucky for him. He would be lying if it was an ego boost. It wouldn't be a pain to kiss her. Not if it prevented her upset and keeping her on side.

Molly had gotten up in this time, hand on hip, waiting for him to leave. She was trying to give the air of confidence. She looked like she was fighting tears. Which she was. He got up, and looked down at her. She had goosebumps on her skin. It wasn't particularly cold. He could end her suffering now. It would be beneficial to both.

He kissed her. He pulled her close and kissed her.

He could feel her shock, the delayed reaction. But she responded, her smooth lips slowly touching his, savouring the feeling. It seemed to be instinctual for her. It was nice. Pride waved through him. Her hands didn't go through his hair this time, though her hands hovered in front of his chest, shaking slightly, deciding whether to stop him or not. And then she pulled back.

He was surprised to see fresh tears tracks on her face. He hadn't felt that during the kiss, he'd been too preoccupied with her gentle lips.

'Why, why did you do that?' she asked, bewilderment evident.

'Because I wanted to obviously' he replied, a tad too caustic.

'But why?' she asked, this time insistent, her eyes deducting him now. A slash of dread went through him.

'Because I don't want our relationship to change'. He could see she got it. And she didn't like it.

'Y...You kissed me to keep your life comfortable?'. That didn't sound exactly right to Sherlock so he said nothing. 'That might be the most horrible thing you've ever done Sherlock. Why won't you let me get over you?' she asked pained. He didn't know.

She stepped back from him. She was clearly angry. Why were humans so complicated! He'd just offered her what she wanted, and she was upset because of the motive behind it? Most people didn't question the intent of an action when they get what they want, so why did Molly? She was much more intelligent than he'd given her credit for, a theme that seemed to keep popping up over the last week.

'Please leave Sherlock' she said. Disappointment in her voice, her face, but most of all in her eyes. She was too intelligent for her own good.

She couldn't help thinking the same thing.

And so he left.


	9. Half Of My Heart

'I'll have the chicken soup please' said the feminine though meek voice.

Bland, boring, safe choice. Clearly unadventurous. Cheapest thing on the menu so clearly thrifty too, yet she doesn't look forlorn at her choice, probably a lifelong habit, indicating less than affluent parents.

'I'll have the same' came an accompanying male voice.

Clearly thrifty too, probably saving money, or at least showing solidarity with the woman. The actions of a married couple saving up to buy their first house. The couple being Mary and John Watson, who were currently sitting in a generic restaurant just five minutes from Baker Street, mid day on a Thursday with a clearly bored Sherlock Holmes.

John had been back three weeks, and in that time had noticed a subtle change in Sherlock. He was quieter, more pensive, which John didn't think would have been possible. He was still the cocky git he always was, but it was as if he had been dented, his ego bruised. He suspected that Sherlock was experiencing a delayed reaction to his marriage; after all they were best friends, newly reunited. Before Sherlock had … gone, they'd spent all their time together. They'd barely had time to reconnect when he had returned before John himself left on his honeymoon. Plus it wasn't like before. John had responsibilities now; and he wanted Sherlock to be within them, as well as embrace them. Thus he had planned this meal to help Mary and Sherlock get to know each other. Mary had booked the day off especially. Though Sherlock probably knew all he needed to know at a single glance. Still he thought Sherlock would be civil. He should known to have no expectations when it came to Sherlock. They'd barely been there fifteen minutes and Sherlock had hardly said a word, he just deducted and rolled his eyes every now and then.

'So, Sherlock' began Mary, smile in place 'Hows it being back?'

'How is it. And it's fine.' said Sherlock stiffly, not even looking at her, just scanning the room. Mary looked at John and raised an eyebrow. He gave her a slightly embarrassed smile back. She tried again.

'I've heard you've already started taking on cases again, John won't stop talking about them' she said affectionately. Sherlock sighed and began to drum his fingers on the table.

'Of course he has, what else would he have to talk about?' he said wryly. John resisted the urge to thump him.

'Sherlock' warned John. Sherlock lolled his head back, tutting in agitation. Mary looked at them both, before getting up slowly.

'I'm just going to powder my nose', she said, swapping a conspiratorial look with John, while affectionately squeezing his shoulder.

As soon as she was out of sight John let rip.

'Can you just try, for one day, to not be a such a rude git Sherlock?' John hissed, incensed. Again Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'John, if you want me and Mary to know each other truly, then you must allow me to act like myself.'

'Okay, what is the matter with you?' John's fist unconsciously flexed.

'Excuse me?'

'Are you jealous?'

'Oh please'. But it was too late, John looked like he'd had an epiphany, head tilted, vague surprise on his face. He slowly leaned back in his chair.

He knew Sherlock wasn't asexual, the Irene Adler business had put that idea to rest. But what if Sherlock's sexuality wasn't as one sided as he'd assumed. It was the time to be tentative.

'Sherlock. I know we haven't really discussed this but, erm, oh I'm just gonna come out and say it, are you upset because I'm in a relationship. With a woman.'

The second the words left John's mouth, he wanted to take them back. Sherlock muttered 'Oh for goodness sakes ' under his breath, bringing up his fingers to massage the bridge of his nose.

'John, I have absolutely no sexual interest in you. Whatsoever.'

'Then explain why you're acting out like this?'.

Sherlock gave a snort. He was being lectured like a child at parents evening. He ignored the question.

'Mary's taking her time' side stepped Sherlock. John smiled.

'Yeah I know, she wanted me to speak to you alone, make you more comfortable.'

'She said all that with "I'm going to powder my nose"?' said Sherlock caustically.

'It's a married thing' replied John with a wry smile. However Sherlock just looked sad. Almost wistful.

Oh.

'Sherlock, are you jealous of mine and Mary's relationship' inquired John slowly. Sherlock barely moved.

'John. Do you miss being alone?' asked Sherlock. John's brow furrowed in thought.

'Honestly? No. Sometimes I want privacy, but never for long. Is this why you're upset? You feel alone? Because you know you still have me'

'Not in the same way you have Mary. Being alone is...testing' countered Sherlock, his eyes intense, trying to convey something John was sure he was missing. And he was sure it had something to do with Sherlock's missing three years.

'I thought you weren't a relationship person?'

'How do you really know until you've tried?' Sherlock countered with a shrug.

'You would know Sherlock'

'I don't know everything John'

'I think your lack of knowledge of the solar system proved that' said John, trying to illicit a smile from Sherlock. His face remained stoic. He tried to be serious.

'Are you thinking of someone in particular?'.

Sherlock said nothing. John tried a different tactic.

'Sherlock, people like you and Mycroft are just built differently'.

For a moment Sherlock was a statue. And then with a new energy he got up, eyes bright, almost rampant.

'Give my apologies to Mary when she's finished hiding in the corner. I have to go.'

'Sherlock!' called John after him but he was already out of the door.

Mary stepped out from behind a pew, looking concerned.

'Is he okay?' she asked sitting down, reaching out to hold John's hand. He held hers in both of his.

'I have absolutely no idea'.

Despite the fact Sherlock had never been to this house in Kensington Gardens, he knew everything about it. He knew it would be decorated in modernised Victorian wall paper, be clean in an almost sterile way and it would have only one person in it. Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft had once invited Sherlock to his home, but Sherlock had refused and so it he was never invited again. However Sherlock knew the way to get there like the back of his hand. He didn't bother to knock, he just quickly picked the lock, all the while idly thinking that someone of Mycroft's intellect should surely know how bad a lock it was. It just gave to force to Sherlock's theory that Mycroft was, indeed, succumbing slowly to the effects of age.

He walked slowly into the living room, only to find Mycroft sitting, waiting for him. He hadn't succumbed to far it seemed; Mycroft's laziness would be the death of him. Mycroft was facing the unlit fire, though his body was subtly alert, clearly aware of Sherlock's presence but not bothered by it. Sherlock didn't move any closer.

Sherlock cut to the case.

'Do you wish you were like the blissfully ignorant ordinary people?' he asked, unusually subdued.

Mycroft gave a little sigh, and pursed his lips slightly.

'This is about Dr Hooper I presume. Of course it is. You know it wouldn't be fair to be with someone just because you don't want to be lonely Sherlock' said Mycroft, standing up and finally turning to Sherlock, hands in his pockets, his face grave. Sherlock resisted the urge to sneer at him.

'That isn't why I want her' he replied confidently, though Mycroft noted that his face looked slightly uneasy at this confession.

'No. I don't suppose it is. Not anymore'. Neither moved. 'we're not like them Sherlock.'

'Yet you've still managed to have relationships with them' Sherlock countered.

'When I was young, yes. For brief times. But that doesn't the change the fact we don't think like them.'

'No one thinks truly alike. Generally yes, but we each have that 0.1% that makes us unique' spat Sherlock, scorn in his voice. Mycroft gave a little humourless laugh.

'I see you've already made your decision.'

Sherlock ignored his gaze, instead focusing on the picture of their mother on the mantelpiece. If he could care for her, he at least had potential.

He turned to leave.

'Yes I do Sherlock. Sometimes' finally answered Mycroft, his voice tired.

It wasn't just him then.


	10. Want You Back

forewarning; i'm dying of tonsillitis, okay not technically, but it feels like it, and so i wrote this while ill, and don't think it's my best to be honest. Oh well.

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><p>He didn't want to call it an epiphany. The word epiphany suggests a sudden realisation, and Sherlock wasn't so sure this was so sudden. Now that he really examined his actions, something he rarely did, Sherlock was sure he had known for quite sometime, on some kind of subconscious level. What else could possibly explain why he had been so keen to converse with her, why he had been so willing to kiss Molly just to make her stay, knowing once would not be enough to sate her, and why she had been the forefront of his mind more than he liked? He realised now that he hadn't been trying to keep things the same; he had been trying to change them. Because he liked Molly. What had once been so mundane about her, now fascinated him. It wasn't that she wasn't unreadable, it was more that he liked reading her now. He liked her reactions, and the dependability of them, though not so dependable that he got bored.<p>

He knew that if things hadn't ended with Moriarty on the note they had, that his feelings wouldn't have changed as they had now. She still would have been Molly, who counted, but only at a distance. The three years he had spent hiding had changed him in the slightest way, a way that wasn't put into effect until the wedding. The catalyst.

He didn't love her. Nor would he ever. Love was just a word used to describe a flurry of varying emotions, used as an excuse. While he had feelings for her, and it would be stupid at this point to deny it, it wasn't love. Nor would Sherlock ever call it that. For he wouldn't use his feelings as an excuse any longer. It had been his own stupidity that had affected his actions towards Molly recently, actions and words he regretted.

Sherlock had to apologise unfortunately.

By this point it was just on the cusp of evening, Molly would have been out of work a couple of hours by now, and would most likely be at home. He jumped into the nearest taxi, and began immediately speeding to Molly's. Or at least he was shouting at the cabbie to speed up amidst the traffic. By the time they arrived at her flat at eight o'clock, Sherlock knew the chances of her still being there had decreased ever so slightly. But then again Molly was reliable and wasn't exactly a party animal.

Or not.

Knocking on her door, it took him all of two seconds to realise she wasn't there. How inconvenient. Pulling a spare bobby pin from his pocket (saved for occasions not unlike this), he picked the lock, and let himself in, wiping his feet on the 'welcome' mat. If she didn't know she wouldn't be mad, he reasoned. The place was a mess, at least by Molly's standards. Dishes were unclean in the sink, clothes strewn on the floor, and the contents of Molly's bag were scattered around the room. She'd clearly had some kind of a break down. What other reason could there be for the state of her living room? Curiosity far from sated, Sherlock made his way to Molly's bedroom. It was much of the same; clothes strewn, bed unmade, though the lingering smell of a scented candle, most likely rose scented, hung in the air. How odd. He scanned the room again, with a slight sense of foreboding. And then he finally understood it.

Molly was out on a date.

It was first date, obviously. Molly wasn't one to initiate sex on a first date, a moral she inherited from her mother. Also if she'd left the flat in this kind of state, bed unmade, then she clearly had no intention of inviting anyone back. She was far too proud.

Sherlock pointedly ignored the logical side of his mind suggesting that maybe she'd been planning to go to the male in question.

She obviously had high hopes for the date, deliberating and redoing her make up numerous times judging from the make up clad wet wipes, and from the fact her make up was scattered around the entire flat, indicating indecisiveness and sudden change. The clothes stated the obvious. All in all she clearly cared about how she would be perceived.

Sherlock felt the sudden urge to find a firearm. And shoot it. Repeatedly.

So much for a mental breakdown.

He had to find her now. He wasn't going to allow some sub-average male to help her to repress her feelings. Luckily deducing where she had gone was easy enough. The imprint of the details were still visible on a nearby pad of paper, where Molly had written it, while on the phone. Al Dente, eight o'clock. A twenty minute cab journey from here. It was eight twenty. They would have wanted to arrive slightly before their booking. He must have missed her by five minutes. Oh for goodness sakes. He needed to nip this in the bud. He made for the door, when a small, non-threatening photo frame on the side table caught his gaze. It was turned down. Interesting. He picked it up, only to see his own face. It was a cut out from a paper, of him during a press conference. He was wearing that damned deer stalker, he noted to his annoyance. But more than that he felt... happy that she had this. They'd argued three weeks ago and the most she had done was turn it down. She still cared.

The odds seemed to turn back in to his favour, just ever so slightly.

Now he just needed to get there.

He was lovely. There was no other word for it. No Nick wasn't Sherlock-Holmes-spectacular, but he was nice. Molly doubted he had a manipulative bone in his body. But then again she'd thought that about Jim. Shaking her head slightly, she tried to focus back on him, as they sat, slowly nursing glasses of wine, waiting for their food.

The last thing she expected to see was a disheveled and bleeding Sherlock Holmes barrelling towards them.


	11. Hummingbird Heartbeat

All he'd known was that he had to get to Molly. Quickly. And so when, for the first time in his life, a cab he'd attempted to hail began to drive pass, he thought instinctively. And jumped in front of it. At least he got the cab journey for free and much quicker than was probably legal. Once he'd managed the stop the driver from his unnecessary hyperventilating, both from shock at hitting someone, and at the shock at that famous someone being the infamous Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock suspected he had bruised his ribs, but considered it an even price to pay, as was the bleeding scratch above his eye. He was in a rush after all, and evening traffic on a Friday in London could be preposterous.

'Ah Molly, there you are' stated Sherlock, his eyes fixed on her, his hand absently wiping at his coat.

She knew she resembled a gulping fish in that moment but she couldn't move. He didn't seem to take any notice, he just strode forward to their table, removing his gloves as he walked. Within seconds he was standing in between the couple, looking at Molly expectantly. Nick's foot lightly nudged Molly's, snapping her out of her daze, making her suddenly aware of how dry her mouth was. It was Nick's turn to look at her expectantly.

'W...What are you doing here Sherlock?' asked Molly, voice hoarse, but as cold as she could manage under the circumstances. Sherlock looked faintly surprised for a moment, until he remembered their last meeting, his face switching to annoyance.

'I need to talk to you as if it wasn't obvious'. Molly blanched a little. But before she could respond Nick interrupted.

'Excuse me, are you Sherlock Holmes?' asked Nick tentatively. Sherlock smirked, while Molly's head instinctively turned towards Nick, finally noting that his face was not mirroring her annoyance, but rather looked starstruck. How mortifying. He'd even reached out to shake Sherlock's hand.

'Why yes I am, now if you could run along for a minute' said Sherlock impatiently, not actually shaking Nick's hand, but using the grip to pull him up, and push him in a random direction. Nick just stuttered out some gibberish, and stumbled slowly in the direction. Nick looked back to Molly, his frown barely overriding his surprise. Molly just looked back at him, too embarrassed to really say anything. She looked down, fiddling with her fingers. She listened intently to his footsteps as they faded away, and then to the sound of Sherlock scrapping the chair back and sitting down.

Sherlock spoke quietly. 'You look nice'.

Against her will, she blushed.

'Sherlock, I thought I said-'

'But then again you always look attractive. You have the scientific markers, you know, the clean hair, good skin, and the hygienic smell. Attractive, scientifically, nice... personally'.

What?

'Please I'm begg-'. Molly couldn't hear these things. Not again. Not when he didn't mean them.

'Look Molly, I came here to tell you we should start a relationship. In a manner of words. A tentative one.'

No point beating around the bush anymore.

Molly tampered down the hope, only allowing herself to feel the pain.

'What do you need?' Molly replied resignedly., her eyes closing. She didn't see Sherlock frown.

'Molly, you're mistaken. It is not a ploy'

'L..like the last time mmm? I think you just want back in my favour again so you can use me' Molly replied, her voice slowly increasing in octaves.

'Oh Moll-'

Molly needed him to shut up. A slow building anger in her needed him to shut up.

'Stop Sherlock, just stop it, it's horrible!' she cried, attracting the gaze of over half of the fellow diners. 'Please leave me alone. Nick's nice you know, he's no genius consulting detective but he's still smart and kind. And you just waved him off like his nothing. Like you did to me. Well I won't have it Sherlock Holmes. Stop teasing me and let me move on. You think stuff like emotions don't matter, that they're just laughable and curious, but they do. You don't love me. Why can't you let someone else?'

The whole room was silent, people listening in. Sherlock had paled ever so slightly, while Molly seemed breathless a little.

'No I don't love you Molly. And I never will. Love is an excuse for irrational behaviour and I will never be irrational nor seek excuse for my actions. My mind would never allow it. But I care. Quite simply I just care. I have slowly began to care for you, only of course, my mind didn't recognise it as so.'

'I know I count Sherlock if that what you mean'

'It is not what I mean Molly you stupid girl.' Tears formed in her eyes and he instantly regretted his words. 'I'm sorry, forgive me. Just hear me out'

She made no movement, which he took as consent to continue.

'You don't understand, my mind is so complex, so scientific, that it often misses the simple things. I am human, I am like you. I have the same needs as you. My mind just can't always comprehend it, because of it's simplicity. And I missed out on the fact that I was falling into the trap of caring for you. My mind twisted it, saw it as a ploy on my behalf, as a reaction. I didn't see it for what it was. Attraction. Not just the superficial kind. But on a personal level. Because you're kind, awkward, shy, loyal, smart and more perceptive than I ever gave you credit for.'

He had unconsciously leaned forward at some point in his speech, his eyes darting crazily as he tried to explain the unexplainable. Now, finally stopping, and looking at her face he saw that she was now crying. Silently.

He spoke softly. 'Molly...'

Her fingers were twiddling again. Clearly nervous, full of anxiety. All the signs of discomfort. That stung. Finally she spoke.

'You'll get bored'.

Her fingers were still engaged in some kind of dance. Slowly, deliberately he reached out, though years of a deep rooted aversion of affection recoiled at the idea. His long fingers encased hers, immediately ceasing her shaking. It felt incredibly satisfying though he couldn't explain why. He couldn't explain a lot of things anymore.

'Molly. I was willing to kiss you every time I thought you would leave. Until the day you died potentially. Logic only goes so far. That was not the reasoning of a bored nor uninterested person.'

'But eventually-'

'You don't see yourself clearly. You could never bore me' he said with a intensity Molly had only seen once; the night he'd asked for her help. Then, in a flash, it was gone, replaced by a warm smile.

'Besides, Molly, even if I did get bored, we'd just have to do something interesting. Isn't that what most people do? Get married, then have children, grand children? It's all about evolution. And I want to evolve with you, as...inconceivable as the idea seems to the pair of us.'

'Erm Molly?'

Nick's uncertain voice broke into their cocoon, into the trance. The silence in the restaurant was deadly. Sherlock hated to imagine what the headlines would be tomorrow when this got out. Sherlock directed a frown at Nick, before turning back to Molly.

'You want to evolve with me?' she asked, her tone displaying both astonishment and reluctance.

'I want to evolve with you' he answered honestly.

'Molly, I don't understand-' Nick interrupted again, frustration now overriding awe.

'Molly?'

'Molly, what is happening here?'

'Will you shut up!' yelled Sherlock at Nick, clearly on some kind of brink. He turned back to Molly.

'Molly?'

'No I won't, how dare you?'

'Molly?

'Molly'

And then Molly stood up slowly. And walked out.

Sherlock ran after her.


	12. If It's Love

So this is the final chapter :D though there will be an epilogue too, which FYI will be M rated, so... you've been warned.

i wanted to basically write a story i would want to read. And i'm glad so many of you liked it too, your reviews were incredible and really did inspire me to write more. (And to the LOVELY people who asked about my health thank you sincerely, i am now healed *chuffed*). But now it's time to bow out while it's still believable... or as believable as it can be.

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><p>Well. That had been embarrassing.<p>

This wasn't a romantic Hollywood movie moment. Not that she wanted it to be. Okay well maybe a little. But she couldn't expect it to be, not when the other half of the story involved Sherlock Holmes. He wasn't the traditional Ryan Gosling-boy-next-door-handsome-devotee type, nor was she the Rachel McAdams-confident-stunning-free spirit type. This wasn't The Notebook.

It wasn't raining. Nor was it sunny. It was a dark, grey, freezing London night. She could vaguely hear a man arguing with a bouncer at the bar opposite, using the type of language that would have made her mother wash her mouth out with soap, had she been brave enough to say it. Traffic was roaring. Hardly picturesque.

She was shy Molly. She didn't want an audience to one of the most important moments of her life. She wanted a private moment. A moment like no other, and yet completely ordinary.

A moment that was the definition of Sherlock.

She'd known he'd follow her out. He would have understood. Because he knew her.

She turned around, finding him there, behind her, waiting silently.

As if she needed any more definitive proof.

'Molly-'

'You've had your turn' she said lightly, a smile on her face.

And that was when he knew.

As if he would have allowed it to end any other way.

And that was the moment he could see his future and her future set in stone. Previously the thought would have terrified him. This time he found himself revelling in the certainty.

Either that or she was trying to let him down gently and he was getting the wrong end of the stick.

He doubted it.

'Molly?'

Oh you cannot be serious, thought Sherlock in disbelief. He turned to Nick, who had somehow not gotten the message he was unwanted. Time to nip this in the bud. He opened his mouth to unleash a verbal frenzy on him, only to be interrupted.

'Nick, I think you should leave. I am really sorry' Molly spoke sombrely, her smile now gone. Clearly to ease the blow. For Nick. Obviously.

To his credit, Nick didn't look angry. At first he looked hurt, his mouth assuming an 'O' shape, but he said nothing. He just gave a humourless smile, and walked back inside. Judging from his stance, and the trajectory of his gaze, probably to drink. No amateur dramatics. How refreshing.

The final problem. Solved.

She was now beaming at him. He beamed back just as brightly at her.

'Just to double check, you're serious right?' she asked again, her confident face contrasting cutely with her restrained voice. He continued to smile.

'Deadly' he replied. If possible she beamed brighter. At least she did for the split second he could see it, because suddenly, she was there, arms wrapped around his neck, lips pressed to his. This time he didn't hesitate or flounder. He kissed her back. First tentatively; this was after all his third kiss. Yet within seconds the tempo had increased. His once lifeless arms slowly encircled around Molly's waist, the fingertips dragging across her skin. Her skin flushed warm. She liked that. He made a mental note to remember that. Her own fingertips were in his hair, wrapping themselves in his curls, pulling him impossibly closer. He felt a strange, foreign stirring. He knew enough of biology to know what that was.

Embarrassed, he pulled away, realising how much he needed to breathe. And they're they were. Outside an inexpensive but impressive restaurant, people photographing them with their phones, arms wrapped around each other. And they were happy. In a way neither had been happy before.

Refusing to let go of Molly, Sherlock finally his spoke, his voice breathless, his eyes bright. He finally seemed aware of the faces pressed up in the surrounding windows,watching them.

'You'd think that we were animals in a zoo' he said oddly conversational. Molly just smiled, and laid her head in his chest.

'If you're a bird, I'm a bird' she said, almost sleepily.

Oh God.

'What?' asked Sherlock, thoroughly perplexed.

'O..oh nothing' she hurried as she blushed, thankful he couldn't see her face. He tensed just a little, scaring her for one mad moment, thinking he'd changed his mind, come to his senses. And then he relaxed. And let out a low chuckle.

Never in a million years would he ever get bored of Molly Hooper.


	13. Epilogue  My Love Is Your Love

and this is it. Thank you again to everyone who reviewed, alerted, favourited and read. Enjoy

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><p>17 hours later<p>

Sherlock's voice sounded bored.

'John? You can speak you know?'

It had been twenty minutes since John had picked up the paper, only to see Sherlock's face plastered all over it. While his face was plastered all over Molly's. Molly Hooper. Molly. Hooper.

It had been four minutes since John had woken Sherlock, demanding an explanation, waving the headline in his face. 'Boffin Holmes jumps again... into love'.

Despite the evidence, John never expected Sherlock's answer.

'Molly and I are a thing now.'

So he'd sat down, absorbing it all in. Someone like Sherlock would eat Molly alive. Sherlock didn't even like people. Irene Adler had been the closest thing to affection Sherlock had ever experienced, and that had just been... weird.

'I didn't know you even liked Molly...?' asked John. Sherlock sighed, violin in hand.

'What you don't know could fill multiple libraries John.'

John frowned, staring daggers at Sherlock.

'Is this some kind of plot?'.

At this, Sherlock looked affronted. He rolled his eyes angrily.

'No. I'm not completely ruthless' he spat sardonically.

John tried a different tactic.

'Are you sure about this?'

Sherlock slowly placed the violin on the side, clasped his hands together, fingers interlacing.

'Completely.'

That was all John needed to know.

Two months

Molly was pretty sure it wasn't common to have a date in a morgue. With your... boyfriend's (?) best friend sitting yards away. But then again what was common about Sherlock? They'd been tentatively attempting to 'evolve' for the past two months, and Molly couldn't remember being happier. Unfortunately for the past week Sherlock and John had been busy on a case, the 'apparent' suicide of an Olympic class athlete, which Sherlock believed was now a political assassination. It was for this reason that Sherlock had insisted that Molly had her lunch with him, while he let John do some kind of test on skin under the victims nails. And there they were, Molly and Sherlock sharing coffee, while John looked mildly confused into a microscope.

She had to admit she felt a little self conscious, but Sherlock's hand enclosing around hers helped her to forget it. She'd been asking him about his case, and Sherlock had immediately started, barely stopping for breath as he explained his theories. She didn't attempt to interrupt, she liked hearing his voice, and he liked to talk, so it all worked out well really.

Until he got a text from Lestrade.

Sherlock immediately got up, letting go of her hand.

'John, there had been another suicide! There's not a second to lose' and he ran out the room, his steps slowly fading. Molly frowned, a sinking feeling overtaking her. He hadn't even said goodbye. Sure, it wasn't exactly a Sherlock thing to do, but still. It hurt. She noticed John looking at her, and gave him a wobbly smile. He shrugged back, as if to say 'That's Sherlock'. It made her want to cry.

'Oh and Molly come round tonight when you're finished work.' came the voice of Sherlock, his head poking through the door. Molly jumped a little.

'I..Oh right, okay' she said with smile. Sherlock smiled back.

'For God's sake John, hurry up' finished Sherlock, before leaving again. Molly beamed.

Not bored yet.

Four months

'I'm scared' she whispered, not daring to look at his face.

'Why are you scared? You've done this before. There is very little chance of pain, and considering that I haven't done this before, I have nothing for you to compare unfavourably against.' reasoned Sherlock, scientific as ever.

'You're good at everything' she argued, her voice almost sad. He raised a hand, placing his fingers under her chin, lifting her eyes to meet his.

'That's not true. Just most things.' he said with a light-hearted chuckle. She giggled in response. He continued.

'If you don't-'

'I do' she interrupted quickly. 'It was my idea. And I meant it.'

'Good' he replied before leaning in to kiss her. She responded enthusiastically, her hands clinging to his shoulders, and then slowly, to make sure he knew she was okay, she moved them, until they lingered over the top button of his shirt.

Both pulled away, eyes meeting. Molly suppressed her nervous laughter. They retained eye contact, while her shaking fingers began to undo his shirt. She could feel herself blushing, but refused to bulk, or he'd never let her attempt this again. He moved his hands to undo her own cardigan, but her fingers beat his, immediately pulling it off. He frowned a little. She just shrugged. He knew she was more self conscious than him. He allowed her to take off her own t shirt and undergarments, though her hands instantly went up to cover herself. His own hands rose to cover over hers, and slowly began to pull them away.

She looked beautiful. The epitome of attractiveness.

He kissed her. Hard. His hands gripping her closely. She gasped a little, a blush spreading on her face, and slowly across her body. Interesting. The kiss was chaotic, frenzied, and it left him a little light headed. He was still getting used to wanting it; the close proximity.

Within minutes both were nude. Molly was blushing furiously, while Sherlock was unnervingly calm. They were both in Molly's bed, Sherlock hovering over Molly. She felt acutely alert. The blood was rushing to her head, and she was still shaking. She had imagined them in this position more times than she liked to acknowledge, but this was more. It was better. It was real.

He kissed her neck slowly, over her pulse, before meeting her eyes again, a wry smile placed there.

'Molly, take a breath'.

She did as he asked and took a deep breath, trying to calm down. And it worked. Until he kissed her neck again, causing her body to instinctively curve against his, both now flushing, a little moan to escaping her lips. He gave a small, nearly inaudible grunt, that created a surge of power through Molly. His eyes were bright now, looking at her, waiting for some kind of confirmation.

He could be courteous when he wanted.

They had made the necessary precautions. The pill. Condoms.

She nodded, suddenly shy. It vaguely reminded her of the night she lost her virginity. She tried to block that out.

Her body was stiff, her eyes avoiding his, her breathing suddenly erratic again. He needed to avert her attention. He kissed her, the intense kind that made her weak at the knees. He needed this to be good for her.

What if he was bad? Oh how he hated to be the novice.

She felt him enter as he kissed her. She felt embarrassed of course, but she didn't care. His shoulders slowly rising and falling above her, his hands holding himself up, placed on either side of her head, while his head lolled against her neck, a slight sheen across it. Her hands explored the expanse of his back, while her pelvis synced with his, creating a glorious rhythm. She moaned a little, her movements becoming more feral, more desperate. And then it was over.

And it was perfect. He was perfect.

It was perfect. She was perfect.

Three years and three months...

'W..what? Are you serious, I can't tell if you're joking Sherlock, because this isn't funny...?' asked Molly, her voice barely disguising her disbelief, and, though she hated to admit it, her panic.

'Molly, don't be like that, it's an important case' replied Sherlock, not faltering from packing his luggage, his back still to her.

'But what if I go into labour and you're not here?' her hands instinctively falling to cup her swollen stomach.

'Molly you're not due for another six weeks, the likelihood of you going into labour within the next two weeks, judging from the foetus's gestation rate, is highly remote' he countered.

'But there is a chance Sherlock. Please. I feel safer when you're here.' she near begged him.

He finally turned to her, an indulgent smile on his face.

'Molly, you're are panicking. Take a breath. Now, Sarah will be staying here while John and I are gone. She has a good practical and theoretical knowledge of pregnancy, which could even potentially rival mine, after all, she has actually given birth.'

Molly instinctively smiled at the thought of baby Thomas. She quickly neutralised her face, a trick she'd learnt from Sherlock.

'Please Sherlock' she whispered, leaning her head against his chest.

'Molly, children require money. I need to earn money, as you have told me repeatedly.'

She blushed at that. She'd mentioned it twice. Okay maybe a little more than that.

'Okay' she relented, moving away from him, and turning away. She heard him sigh.

'You're mad' he stated. He knew. Her confirmation was irrelevant. But she still gave it.

'Yes.'

Three years, four months and two weeks

'Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.'

Fucking ouch.

Nothing prepares you for it. Child birth. Molly had thought she'd experienced the very meaning of pain when she'd dislocated her knee when she was eleven. She was wrong. So very wrong. The epidural was wearing off, and the pain was so intense, it was surreal. The pain was so disarming, so strong, that it was almost numb, she felt distant from it in a respect. Her body was burning, sweating. All she wanted to do was push, everything told her to push. Except Sherlock, and the midwife.

'Molly, don't push yet, prepare to crown' said Sherlock calmly, as if they were discussing the weather. Oh she wanted to punch him. She had done since he'd returned a month ago. Sherlock had abandoned her when she had specifically asked him not to. That may have been typical Sherlock behaviour before they'd decided to try this 'parenting lark' but she'd assume he'd at least understand the seriousness of this. She was both angry at him for not changing, and angry at herself for expecting him to.

'Fuck off Sherlock!'

'Push now dear' half yelled the kindly midwife. So she did.

She could feel the tears streaming down her face, but she just kept pushing until she thought she would burst a blood vessel. She internally prayed she wasn't dying, because she was sure this is what it felt like. She opened her eyes, watching Sherlock stand next to the midwife, staring intently at her vagina. A stray feeling of embarrassment came and went quickly, triumphed by all encompassing pain. She pushed again.

And then bliss.

A baby crying. She couldn't see it, but she could hear it. The baby. It was as though her heart swelled, expanding out of her chest, just to contain all the love she felt in that moment. It radiated through her. She knew she was in pain and tired, but that cry overtook it all.

'It's a girl'

The student midwives, with whom she was sure Sherlock was watching closely, took the baby to be cleaned, while the after birth was delivered. And then she was there in her arms. And she was perfect. Actual perfection. Even more perfect than Sherlock, which Molly would have once refuted. All fingers and toes. She already had her father's cupid bow lips. Molly started to cry, the happiness was so potent. Molly looked to Sherlock finally, no longer angry; he'd given her this gift, which overrode everything in existence. His face was almost grave with emotion. His eyes were fixed on their darling little girl; and while she couldn't confirm it, Molly thought that his face resembled that of a blind man, seeing for the first time.

'I thought for sure she would be a girl' finally spoke Molly, her voice taking a dream like quality. Sherlock seemed to snap back to reality. 'I thought we could name her Charles. Or I did when I thought she was a boy. Obviously not now.' oh she was so tired.

'Darwin?' he asked, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat, though his eyes didn't leave the baby, who slept silently against Molly's bosom. Molly nodded carefully, still blushing even in the circumstances. How he had come to adore that blush. Sherlock flashed a quick grin. He knew in that moment they had accomplished their goal. They were eternally evolved now. He may not have believed in the notion of love, but in that moment, in a moment of weakness, the only moment of weakness he would ever have, he had to admit, he loved that little girl. And her mother. And everything the word suggested. Irrationally.

'What about Charlotte? For a name? It is a variant of Charles after all' suggested Molly.

Charlotte Holmes?

Charlotte Holmes. The perfect name for their flawless child.

Thirteen years.

'Mr Holmes, Ms Hooper, this kind of behaviour isn't acceptable' implored the furiously red faced male on the other side of the desk. Charlotte's maths teacher. Mr Dale. He turned to the child sitting in between the couple, her chestnut hair in a messy pony tail, her school uniform crinkled, while her legs swung freely and exuberantly around.

'Charlotte, lying is wrong, and you need to apologise.'

'She will do no such thing' said Sherlock, his voice full of that familiar authority. Molly sighed, and resisted the urge to smirk. She reached out for Charlotte's hand and gave it a squeeze. The girl looked up and gave a toothy smile to her mother. Sherlock continued.

'Charlotte was not lying. You are clearly having an affair with Mrs Pennell. You still have lipstick smear in the pores on your neck.'

'And he smells of Mrs Pennell's perfume too daddy' added Charlotte, beaming at her father, who beamed back. Sherlock sent a wink in Molly's direction, who stifled a laugh. Everytime.

Mr Dale paled.

That was the one and only time Charlotte Holmes was ever called a liar. At least to her face.

Twenty three years

'Are you bored yet?' she asked again, the same question she had asked almost everyday for twenty three years.

'Never' was his reply. And it always would be.


End file.
